


Have It Your Way

by Catchclaw



Category: Hannibal (TV) RPF
Genre: Characters Writing Fanfiction, Drinking, First Time, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Meta, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mads has ideas for an RPF. Hugh thinks he's got it all wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have It Your Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abrae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/gifts).



> For abrae, that cheerful enabler.

“This,” Mads says, heavy, falling into his fourth beer. “Explain it again.”

Aaron squints over the pretzels, half hidden by his sweet and pink. “This? Could you be more vague?”

It's a joke, maybe, because Caroline laughs and so does Scott, but Scott laughs at anything. So. Maybe not.

“Yesterday. About—” Mads flaps his hand towards the other end of the table, towards Hugh, and back. “This you are explaining to me, yesterday. The, ah, _ægte_ person writing.”

“Oh, the—oh!” Aaron says, showing teeth. “The real person fic, yeah. RPF.”

“R—P—F,” Mads says carefully, balancing each sound in the air. “That's it. Yes.”

Caroline dives under a napkin. “Please god. Seriously.”

Aaron puts down his glass and leans across the table. “Dude, remember, it's like that slash stuff with you—with Hannibal—and Will. Stories that people write about you guys, um, together.”

Mads' face feels like Christmas. “The porn,” he beams.

“The porn,” Aaron nods. “Right.”

His cheeks are pinker than his drink. Mads pats them one at a time, to be sure. 

“So the porn,” Aaron says, really loud. “Yeah, like that. Except about you and Hugh.”

“Me,” Mads says. “ _Ja_. And Hugh.”

“What's so complicated?” Scott says from behind Aaron's glass. “You're pretty. People write about you fucking. Done.”

“Who’s fucking done?” Hugh calls, bright and loud. “Eh? Which one of you bastards is rolling it up already?”

Mads pushes Aaron's chin with one finger, watches him sink back into his chair. “Bloop.”

“Not me!” Caroline says, rolling the napkin back like a veil. “I need another drink, stat.”

“So does Aaron,” Scott says.

“So does—? Hey! You son of a bitch!”

“Your ice was melting under the gaze of your Scandinavian prince.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Beer, please,” Mads says. 

He eats stale pretzels and grins into his pint. Whispers: “R—P—F.”

**______________**

There would not be much talking, Mads decides, in his RPF. Mostly because dialogue is hard and Hugh uses too many big English words to get right on the paper.

But also because, porn.

It would be in a nice room, he figures out one day in the shower. A nice bed. Big. Not the _tynd_ one in his trailer. Hannibal's bed, hmm. Maybe.

No. A hotel. Yes, but not the one they live in. A pretty one. Mads tips his head back in the car on the way to set and admires the towers on the lakeshore. One of them, then. Big windows to take in all of that blue. Lots of sky. Showerheads that vibrate and pillows as thick as his fist.

"Pillows," Mads tells his makeup person gravely, "are important."

He says it in Danish, though, because it's early and he can't put coffee straight into his veins, so she just pokes his nose with her brush and says: "Hey now. Stay still."

He very much wants there to be beer. Even in words, though, Hugh would not appreciate that, he thinks. Not as much. But there needs to be alcohol, for the RPF him, and probably more so for Hugh.

Probably.

Wine, though, it makes Mads' teeth hurt and makes Hugh float away like a hot wired balloon, so, yes: liquor.

In between scenes, he makes a note in Lecter's datebook: _scotch. Whisky. NO VODKA._

"Hey," Hugh says, leaning over his shoulder, "stop defacing company property."

Mads pitches back and catches the pen on Hugh's chin. "Defacing your face, then."

Hugh smacks him hard enough to dislodge Lecter's hair gel and Mads gets the giggles so hard he almost falls out of the chair. No one thinks it's funny but them. They get banished to the makeup trailer to get fixed.

"You are a terrible influence," Hugh says, grinning at him in the big wall of mirror. "Legitimately. You're ruining my reputation as a consummate professional here."

“See?” Mads says. “Big English words.”

Hugh laughs, head back and eyes closed.

 _Frydefuld_ , Mads writes on a newspaper later, when he's supposed to be falling asleep. In English, beside it: _joyous_ , because young, he looks, Hugh, when he laughs like that. Not a child, but open and free.

RPF Hugh will wear this, will look like this, Mads thinks. _Ja_. Before and maybe during the porn.

He turns off the light and his head shows him Hugh, again, standing in front of big windows looking over the lake, his body framed by miles of sky. His hair swimming between two pillows as thick as Mads' fist.

Huh, Mads thinks, softly into sleeping. Yes. That too.

**______________**

He scribbles things when they come to him: on a receipt, on a corner torn from a script, on a sticky note from Hugh's weird color-coded piles. They gather in his pockets; fall out, some, and make nests on the table next to his bed.

Scraps of words, puzzle parts of a picture. It's nice. Whenever inspiration strikes.

Like the next time they go out, when Caroline picks, so there's more bourbon than beer.

“But what they do have is plenty snotty,” she tells him as he pulls out her chair. “You'll love it. Trust me.”

“Don't take that as a challenge,” Hugh says behind him. “Save some to try next time, alright?”

“Pffft. _Mor høne_.”

Hugh elbows him. “More like the poor bastard who has to get you home. Last time you almost gave me a black eye.”

“There was ice,” Mads says.

“There was drunk.”

Mads laughs. Takes the seat next to Aaron, just to watch him blush. “I can't help if you are frail.”

Hugh settles across from him. Passes over a menu. “I can't help it if you don't know your limits. Or choose to ignore them completely.”

“Meh,” Mads says, distracted by pictures of fried things and words that might be in French. “Not _fuldstændig_.”

He and Caroline split a tasting flight before dinner, and it's good. Very. Two pints with his meal—crisp duck, green leaves, and risotto. Another pitched back from the table, watching everybody else eat.

“You didn’t eat very much,” Aaron says. “Do you want something else? Here, have some of my _frites._ ”

For some reason, this is funny, makes Scott shoot wine from his nose and Larry choke on his steak. 

“No, Mads says, hugging his lager to his chest. “This is good.”

Hugh keeps nudging glasses of water his way. Mads nudges them back.

“Black eye,” Hugh says. “You're not breaking anything of mine tonight. Have some water, for gods' sake.”

The bar is dim—ambiance, Caroline likes—and the shadows make Hugh's eyes look black. Dark and pretty. His face goes out of focus for a moment. Comes back in.

Out and in, Hugh is beautiful. _Dejlig_.

In and out, Hugh’s laughing at him. “What are you staring at?”

Mads makes a claw. Snaps it over the bread. “Pen,” he says. “For writing. Please.”

It's silver and slim, warm from sleeping in the breast pocket of Hugh's jacket. Mads has to put his glass down to hold it, to balance it between his palms and appreciate it, smooth.

Hugh ignores him, because he is a friend, and turns his attention to something Scott is saying, singing, both.

It takes Mads a minute, but he finds it, a bar napkin that's more dry than wet. The first letter he tries goes through to the tablecloth—“Pushing too hard,” he says, “yes.” By the third, though, the pen's moving more easy. He fills one napkin and feels out another.

“Um,” Aaron says in his ear. “Mads. What are you doing?”

“Writing,” Mads says. “Words, _ja_. Making words.”

Aaron snorts. “About anything in particular, or you just freestyling?”

Mads lifts his head. Grins. “The R—P— and F. Words together, about that.”

Aaron's face goes wide. “You're—ok. That's, uh. Alright.” He tips away. “Wow.”

“What?” somebody says, Caroline? But the words in Mads' pen—Hugh's—are lots louder.

“You look pleased,” Hugh says, later, as everyone winds back into their scarves. 

“Yep,” Mads says. “Here. Pen.”

He hands back the silver and scrunches the napkins into his coat. Lets Hugh herd him out of the warm dark and into the street. 

“Do you need a cab?” Hugh says. “It's ok. I won't mock you. Too loudly.”

Mads finds his arm and squeezes. Knocks his ear into Hugh's hair. “Bup bup bup. No cab. Lean on you, ok?”

Hugh laughs. “Yeah, ok.”

In his room, Mads drops the napkins over the nightstand where they float like wordy snow and there, come to rest.

**______________**

  
One night, they wrap late, late late, the so kind of late that it isn't worth going to bed.

It's just Mads and Hugh and Larry and Larry says no. Director, too. Even the boom guy who bets on the Bundesliga. Tired, everyone says. So. Except Hugh.

"One drink," he says. "At the hotel bar, only."

Mads grins, bouncing the balls of his feet. "Yep. Only one. Swear."

Hugh gives him a look. Reaches back for his coat. "And you're buying."

"Ok, ok, fine."

They share a car home. Hugh puts his head against the window and sort of sleeps. Sort of snores.

"You were snoring," Mads tells him as they sit down. "Old man."

Hugh flips him off. "Fuck you very much. Some of us aren't made of caffeine."

Tired Hugh is swear-y Hugh. To Mads, this is always funny.

"What do you want?"

Big gust of breath. "I don't give a damn."

Mads orders two pale ales and watches Hugh pour one down his throat.

"Ugh," Hugh says, a little more happy, after. "I fucking hate you. Why am I not sleeping again?"

"Because you are drinking. And with me. These two things together: no sleep."

Hugh laughs, big and silly, and leans hard on the bar. "That is probably," he says, "the truest thing about you that anyone's ever said. Ever."

Another beer comes and Mads hands it over, watches Hugh sip.

One drink. Right.

“Hey gents,” the bartender says. “It’s that time. We're closing.”

“Oh god,” Hugh says, half into his pint. “Don't tell me what time it is. Don't. I'll fucking cry.”

“It's three,” Mads says, all sunshine. “Don't have to be up until six.”

Hugh curls around his glass and glowers. “Hate. I hate you. Have I mentioned that? You. Hate.”

He lets Mads get up him, though. Won't let go of the beer.

“Come up,” Mads says. “Come up. It's better to be awake.”

“Ugh,” Hugh says, which Mads takes as a yes.

Mads' room is a mess, like always, and Hugh ignores it, because he is a friend. He puts the beer on the night table and throws himself at the bed.

“No,” Mads says. “You are not snoring in here. No sleep.”

He goes to get water, some aspirin, and when he comes back, Hugh is squinting at paper. A napkin. A sticky note. A corner torn from a script.

“Uh,” Hugh says. “What the fuck is this?”

Mads has to squint too. No glasses. “Oh. It's RPF.”

“What?”

Mads hands him the water, the aspirin. Throws himself at the other half of the bed. “Real, ah, real person writing. _Fic_.”

Hugh's holding the napkin in the air, way over his head. “You'll have to do better than that.”

A shrug. Mads tries to explain.

By the time he gets to the hotel, the lakeshore, Hugh is frowning at him, loud.

“You are so spectacularly wrong,” he says. “It wouldn't be like that. Not at all.”

“Eh?”

Hugh rolls over onto his belly and props his chin on his hand. “I think it would happen like this. In the middle of normal.”

Mads makes a face. “Pfft. This bed is terrible.”

Rolled eyes. “The bed is hardly the most important thing here, is it?"

“It's pretty fucking important.”

Hugh pokes him. “Ok, let's pretend the damn bed meets your standards for a moment.”

“Ok.”

Hugh slides closer, until his head is pitched over Mads'. “Right, so, it would be more like this. Both of us tired, a little tipsy—”

Mads grins. Pats his face. “You are that for both of us.”

“Our guards down,” Hugh says, ignoring, “a feeling of safety, et cetera, et cetera.” He blinks. “Yeah. That's far more likely than your, what, fancy hotel-sunlight-and-champagne scenario.”

“There's no champagne.”

Hugh groans and flops on his back, their shoulders lined up tight.

“You made that up,” Mads says, indignant. “No champagne. I said, I would have scotch.”

“You don't drink scotch.”

“Meh. Sometimes.”

Quiet for a minute. Two. Cars far away, hotel sleeping silent.

“So what you're saying is that you'd have to be drunk. Or you think that I would. Is that it?” Hugh’s voice still sounds like playful, but the words, they don't look right.

“I think that could not hurt. Make it easier, maybe. To say yes.”

A sigh, long and soft. “I see. Well.”

There's a moment when the world, the bed, is level, everything is alright, fine, and another where everything's tipping, when Hugh's folded on top of him, chest to chest, one hand punched in the pillow behind Mads’ head.

“For what it's worth,” Hugh says, pale ale and pale eyes, “I wouldn't need it.”

He tips over, unsteady, and before Mads can think anything smart, or do, Hugh's kissing him dirty sweet.

Mads opens his mouth. Adds more tongue in. Just to help.

Hugh's hard to hold, like a wiggly purry fish. His face is hot under Mads' fingers, like Aaron's, but pinker. Like rose. Hotter more after Mads yanks out his shirttails and pets at his back.

Hugh's hand falls into Mads' hair. Tugs. “Fuck,” he says, wet. “Fuck yes.”

He sleeks away and becomes shirtless. That's good.

“That's good,” Mads says, fingers outstretched. “Come here now.”

Hugh settles over him like leaves. Gives Mads back his mouth.

He growls, pretty pretty, as Mads strokes his back. Their hips fit right and he's hard, and Mads is, and it doesn't matter that the pillows are flat or that Mads is so sober or that they're in a place he sees everyday. Maybe, even, it's better.

Hugh draws his dick out before Mads has to ask. Opens enough to pull himself free, that’s all, and sits back on Mads’ knees.

Of course, Mads thinks, squeezing Hugh’s thighs, skin alive under denim, of course every part of him is beautiful. So. He wants to touch, but this is good, too, holding on and watching Hugh.

“Oh,” Hugh says, eyes closed, kneading at Mads' t-shirt as he works himself slow, fat and slow, in his hand. “Oh god. _Fuck_.”

Mads rubs his neck, his ribs. Big smile. Biggest. “Good. Good, _kære_. Yes.”

Hugh's mouth goes up and he laughs, bright bells breaking the night. “This is—this is—”

He lets Mads take his hand away and makes sound, so much, when Mads' fingers take over for his. Eyes open and blue and blue, a lake wrapped up in sky. “You need to make me come,” he says, jackal wide. “Come on, old man. Know you can. Please.”

Mads shakes his head. Grins back and moves faster. “Lazy,” he chides. “Demanding, you. What would you do if I wasn't here?”

“Sleep,” Hugh breathes, “oh fuck me sleep.”

He laughs again, head back and eyes closed, and makes a mess, white everywhere sticky. Apologizes with kisses, with his face pressed to Mads' neck. “God, you feel nice. All cuddly and warm.”

Mads wipes his hand on Hugh's hip, wet smeary to jeans. “Warm, hmm. Wonder why.”

Hugh rolls away, winds in to play with Mads' zipper. Sigh. Metal up and then down. Up. “You can do it,” he says. Down. “Want you to, Mads. Want to see it.”

Mads comes like that, Hugh breathing in his ear, the tips of Hugh’s fingers teasing his knuckles as he strokes himself, hard and tight. 

No sound from Mads' mouth, then. Just a shiver. 

The bed is wrecked. Both of them have their clothes on, most. The sky outside is still dark, at least for a little more. 

“Next time,” Mads says. A kiss. And another. “Next time, my story, ok? My RPF. Better bed.”

Hugh's lips on his cheek. “Fine, ok. Have it your way.” 

“Have you,” Mads says. Maybe just to himself.

Hugh curls closer. “God. Don't tell me what time it is.”

Mads pats his hip. “Don't snore and I won't have to.”

He does, though, right in Mads' ear. But Mads lets him sleep anyway.


End file.
